Another One
by bluedot522
Summary: Shortly after the traumatic incident involving the portal and the betrayal of Bill Cipher, Stanford Pines makes the decision to create a clone of Fiddleford McGucket to comfort himself. However, things don't go exactly as planned, as the clone begins to deviate more and more from what he originally expected, and get a mind of his own.
1. Chapter 1

It had been days since the incident in which my hopes and dreams concerning the portal were shattered in the face of reality. Perhaps weeks. I had no true way of knowing, as I ignored all things but the workings of my own mind and my search for answers.

Fiddleford was right! It was all my fault! Why couldn't I have just seen it sooner? I blamed myself over and over, as I uselessly scribbled my thoughts into my journal, my only outlet and companion.

I was in shock with my losses, and any scrap of sanity or self-care was cast aside in favor of cracking the great enigma of my former Muse. I stayed awake for days at a time, terrified that he might try and take me over to finish his handiwork, napping perhaps only 5 minutes at a time. I felt that I couldn't risk it. I strained to hear any whisperings, the way a prey animal listens for predators, even as it settles into a restful state.

Even as I lived in obsession, the great looming threat downstairs still stood, waiting. Sometimes, I had the courage to go down there and gaze upon it. I thought of all my hard work, and felt a glimmer of pride in my chest. I latched on to this feeling of former glory, even though the feeling gradually became tainted by my intense guilt and the memory of my friend's trauma. But the eye that stared down at me through the dark, cold depths had a certain allure to it, and sometimes I'd have to catch myself if I stared too long. I felt a certain loneliness at most times. But the eye was always there, waiting for me, whether I wanted it to or not. And once in a while, I'd stay.

During my time, it occurred to me that despite all my worrying about the demon, he had not shown his presence since the day of the incident. I could neither hear his voice, nor feel the certain energy that permeated the air around him that I often could. It was strange, but I did not take this for his absolute disappearance. He could be waiting, watching the world from my head, waiting for his chance to strike as soon as it was opportune. But in a way, I was still relieved. He'd chosen not to torment me any more in my emotionally unstable time, and for that, I was at least grateful.

As an experiment, I decided to let myself sleep for one night, and perhaps dream to get a better understanding of my subconscious. I understood the risk of meeting Bill again, but I hoped that in his quietness, he would not impede on my dreams either.

I awoke, pleased to find that he didn't, but I only thought of it for a moment before the contents of my dream became the center of my thoughts.

I dreamt of Fiddleford. It was not in a setting of danger, nor during the time of the trauma as you might expect, but rather as if nothing like it happened at all. It was a simple dream of enjoying another's company.

It was just like the old days, when we would sit down in one of the smaller study rooms for our break. The room was only dimly lit, but it felt relatively early in the day and was quite calming. There wasn't much noise, apart from the constant hum of the fish tank and little noises of the computer and machines from the rooms outside. Fiddleford sat at the desk, his feet propped up on the surface, spitting bucket sitting nearby, as he chewed a wad of tobacco, and I sat in a chair across from him. Of course, I never agreed with his annoying little habits, but I always managed to look past all of that in favor of his otherwise intellectual air and incredible mind when it came to speaking. Outside of work, he was nowhere near as anxious or tense as he normally seemed, and it  
was almost as if he took on a new personality.

He relaxed into his chair and stared off into some distance, recalling his home life he was quite fond of, as his long fingers traced gently around the edges of his puzzle cube. He talked of his son and wife, and thoughts on his living situation.

He pulled his feet down from the desk and leaned in my direction, and asked for the billionth time, elbow on the desk, whether I was planning to settle down or not, with a half-joking smile. I shook my head, just like always, as I had absolutely no interest in those sorts of things. One with as many studious and rigid pursuits as I couldn't possibly afford to get tied down by family obligations the way he did.

He then sighed, with a chuckle, then relaxed back into his chair, and continued on with his talk, to which I would smile and nod politely, only half-listening. I watched him fidget with his cube, gesturing this way and that, until he paused to spit out his tobacco, then continued on until we eased ourselves out of the chair to get back to work, during which the surroundings began to fade, and I was slowly pulled from the dream.

As I woke, I felt a deep sinking feeling in my chest, which arose from a combination of fondness and grief. As I recorded the dream in my journal, I wiped a few unwelcome tears from my eyes, and wondered out of spite if perhaps the demon did have some control over my dream.

As much as I missed Fiddleford however, I decided there was no time to dwell on it, as I was already particularly vulnerable to my own guilt. I continued on with my research of Bill as I normally would.

But unlike before the dream, I became painfully aware of my own loneliness during the time. I realized quickly that without someone working by my side and without the swapping of ideas, and even idle chatter to alleviate my stress, and keep me company, my endeavors would eventually burn me out, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I could remain solitary.

Scientifically speaking, humans, by nature, are social creatures, and have adapted over millions of years to become what they are today. They're hardwired for interaction in groups, and it has proven useful from an evolutionary standpoint when it comes to working together to find food, scare off predators, and domesticate other species. Obviously, I'm no exception to this, considering what I felt, despite my penchant for shutting myself in with my research.

Though studying Bill was my priority, I made it my new mission to find my companion again for the sake of our well-being.

I realized quickly that though I wanted to find Fiddleford again, the odds of finding him were very slim, and it was more likely that he went off into hiding to possibly avoid me, or whatever danger he foresaw than driving all the way home. I had no leads to his whereabouts, and I reasoned that he might not want to see me ever again after what happened, and I already had enough problems as-is.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I had the passing thought that I could contact my brother, but I realized the same could apply. I hadn't seen him for years, and it was very possible for him to carry a grudge. Knowing myself, sometimes I find myself lacking in the ability to communicate my thoughts clearly and efficiently, and unless I have the time to sort out any problems that may occur after I slip up, I don't find that getting him angrier with me would be of any benefit.

In the midst of my studying one late night, a strange idea came to me. I tried to sleep, but it was so intriguing to me at that time, I could not let it go. Being a twin, of course, I'd always taken a slight interest in the nature of genetics, and I read enough on the subject in my spare time for the sake of my study of anomalies, and began experimenting in thought about how I might achieve it.

The idea was not to embark on the hopeless task of trying to find my assistant or reason with my brother, who would be entirely useless in scientific fields, but rather recreate Fiddleford through the process of cloning.

Though I considered the fact it may seem controversial, I never intended to publish any specific studies on it that would raise questions of moral concern. Perhaps a few vaguer findings.

The consequences of creating a human being artificially have already been pondered over centuries by philosophers and writers, but in my own perspective, I didn't find it much different than creating any regular human being. Just in a different way, and perhaps they will appear as a different age, and already have an idea of themselves if they are programmed that way, and would likely be totally fine with that if it's already just a part of their own mind. As long as they are aware that they are a separate person from the original, but can still share a similar perspective, I believe that it's fine. While I understood that there might be a disagreement, I didn't find much of anything wrong with it, personally.

I began to collect a variety of research materials from the library as well as around the lab, and was even lucky enough to come across some of the research of the brain Fiddleford and I compiled for the memory erasing gun, which already gave me a big start. Going in, I already knew that it would be one of the hardest parts and take the most time, so I was at least glad that I found it.

But of all the preparatory stages that I took before actually creating the clone, I found going into the old guest room, Fiddleford's room, was one of the hardest for me.

In his frenzy to leave and half-delirious state, he only took the things most important to him at the time, and many remained behind, still organized in their neat little drawers, or tucked away in the closet to collect dust. The bed was still made, untouched since the morning of the day he left. I ventured in and out quietly, not wanting to put a disturbance in the quiet ambience of the room, and left with only a few things in a box to take DNA samples from, shutting the door softly.

I sighed, and then put it out of my mind.

I told myself that in a month or so's work, it would be occupied again. I knew that patience was the key to my success, and that it would all be worth it in the end.


	2. Chapter 2

I soon found that despite my efforts to balance both of my tasks, the cloning project soon took the place of my research of Bill as a priority. I spent hours absorbed in studying or constructing the various machines that it would require without once pouring back through my notes on cryptograms and the like.

But I figured that since Bill was not an immediate threat, I might as well continue on with my current plan. I was fueled by my newfound hopes and desperation, and felt that I was already far enough along that I couldn't just back down and give into disappointment.

My work soon began to pay off. Within weeks, I was already hearing the steady hum of the machine in the main room that contained the genes which I managed to synthetically replicate from Fiddleford's genetic information. In that time, I even succeeded in constructing a machine that double-checked to see if the genes matched up. Though there was nothing I could do to check the machine that checked the information, I trusted in the technology, and was pleased to find after numerous tests that there were no errors in the code I re-created.

Soon, I began to witness the actual growth of the clone. To see the least, it was not a pretty sight, and my stomach turns slightly upon recalling the initial fetus-like growing stages. It was a needy, meticulous thing, which called for the perfect balance of temperature, bodily fluids, nutrients, and hormones, as well time dedicated to the separate development of its brain.

Unfortunately, Fiddleford was not there to provide any brain to copy over to the clone, of course, so I resorted to copying parts of my own knowledge. I didn't want to risk accidentally copying over some of my own memories, however, so I resorted to some of my active thoughts, which I then hypothesized could become the clone's own pre-programmed knowledge. I carefully thought of and demonstrated everything I could think of regarding math, science, technology, language and writing, many other fields of study, as well as many smaller things, such as tying my shoes, or thinking about making a grocery list as I worked. I pondered every bit of knowledge of Fiddleford's life that I could possibly think of, and hoped with all of my heart it would stick.

I'm afraid to say that once in a while, I thought of my demon, but I figured that it would only be helpful to know in the long run order to avoid him. It felt a little odd to be hooked up to the clone and have to monitor my thoughts so carefully all of the time, even after spending a month or so trying to pick out the presence of Bill, but ultimately, it was good practice for strengthening me mentally.

I wondered once in a while offhandedly if that vile mess that lay in the glass case was really worth all my efforts, but the image of Fiddleford was clear in my head, and brought me through my moments of reluctance. I had even displaced my favorite portrait of Nikola Tesla in exchange for a picture of Fiddleford and his family as a way of keeping my thoughts on task.

Even when I was not working on it actively, I was reminded of it an all moments of the day subconsciously by the steady hum of the machine that sustained it. At night, I dreamed happily, undisturbed by any bad omens or the demon I feared.

Then, one fateful morning, the noise of the machine stopped suddenly. I was so accustomed to it being in the background at the point, that I almost immediately noted when it stopped, even when I was so deep in my thoughts. I felt a pit drop in my stomach, of both anticipation and worry. Could this be it? Or did something go wrong? It seemed awfully early, being two months in, but I had not bothered to check on the actual specimen for quite some time, opting to only pay attention to the numbers for the sake of preserving the contents of my stomach if I possibly could.

I ventured over quickly, journal on hand. I didn't want to miss a minute of this, especially if the outcome was favorable. My mind was already creating images of possible occurrences, some positive, some negative. I pushed away the gruesome ones, and held on to the familiarity of Fiddleford's face.

I lifted the cover of the long, foggy glass container, where the clone's body rested, and peered inside.

In the sharp contrast to what I had pictured, I was met with an almost nauseating shock, and the sinking of my heart.

It was recognizably Fiddleford. But barely. It was nothing like I at all hoped for and pictured.

It was like peering into a coffin to look at a corpse. The clone lay lengthwise in a shallow pool of various liquids, thick wires poking in and out of him in various places. His head was completely bald and his skin was so thin, that it stretched barely over its bones, and I could see ghastly grin of his skull. There was no motion in his bony chest, no movement behind those sunken purple eyelids.

I knew in that moment that my experimentation was coming to a close, and that unless I turned to some dark forces I didn't know the full consequences of, there was little I could do. I slid the cover over the tank, and set the machine back to its default mode, just in case I perhaps missed something, but I couldn't shake the feeling it was all in vain.

I was nearly ready to turn my back on the scene, and perhaps figure out a good place to bury him, when the machine gave a loud beep, which signified that it was detecting life from the clone. I couldn't believe it. I thought that perhaps the machine was malfunctioning, but the levels and numbers that I read seemed just barely enough to still sustain him. But I knew it wouldn't be long before he died.

Still, I found there was a little bit of hope left. Perhaps turning to dark forces would have been one way of getting the job done and I did actually recall a few exemplars from my studies, but I remembered there were much milder things of the same nature. They were anomalies, yes, but surely with comparatively less harmful consequences and hopefully less of chance of accidentally making a pact with another demonic figure or accidentally raising the undead.

Using the information collected in my journals, I set to creating a strange sort of concoction. By combining a pinch of leftover samples of Fiddleford's DNA with a variety of different relevant spells and potions, I hoped that it would fill in for the rest of what the clone was missing. As soon as it was finished, I poured it into the machine, crossed my fingers, and hoped for the best, but it was some comfort to me that the potion at least didn't explode in my face or something or similar nature from so many combined energies together.

I slept that night with some difficulty. I almost regretted my new addition to the experiment, as the potential for some disaster waiting to happen, just from the sheer unpredictable nature of the anomalous studied integrated, gave me some worry. I was relieved to find, at one point, that the clock read 7:30 am, which was a somewhat reasonable time to be up, despite the fact I barely even slept.

I didn't hear any noise, see any flash of light, nor anything else very spectacular all day or night, and I didn't quite know what I was really looking for when I walked over from my desk to check on the cloning experiment, but I was determined to see at least something. Even if it was still just lying there, partially dead, or even fully dead, I at least wanted to see the body unharmed by any effects of the mixture.

I took the journal out of the pocket of my coat and tucked it under my arm. One last time, I slid off the humid glass lid of the case, and peered down at my creation.


	3. Chapter 3

To say the very least, I wasn't very proud whatever noise that was that escaped my lips, upon my gaze being met by a very familiar pair of wandering blue eyes.

I picked up my journal that had been dropped near my foot, and readied myself to take another look.

It was a perfect copy of Fiddleford, lying there amid all the stench and the web of wires. His skin was much paler and wrinkly from the dampness, his face was covered in stubble, and his hair was much shorter, only reaching his ears from the lack of a chance to grow much, but he was all there, nearly perfect. I couldn't believe my eyes. I had done the impossible and not only managed to re-create an entire human being, not of paper, but of flesh and blood, at that, and in the face of adversity, managed to keep my creation alive when else all hope may have been lost!

I tucked my journal in my coat, grinning from ear to ear, but still somewhat dazed by this new development and my initial shock. I could write later, but now I needed to fully experience this first contact, and perhaps soothe him. I couldn't imagine becoming conscious for the very first time and having all senses rush in at once to be a very calming experience.

"Fiddleford," I assured him, "I'm here! You needn't worry."

I headed over to the controls just to make sure he truly was fine, but unsurprisingly, all the numbers were stable, and I discerned that I could remove all connections to the machine safely.

"E-easy does it…" I mumbled to myself, as I reached for the thickest wire that was pinned into the clone, right where his navel would form. I tensed, fearing that he might squirm when least opportune, but I unhooked him without much trouble, and the same applied to all the rest of them.

It was only when I dropped the last wire and began to draw my hand back that I flinched, as he hooked his cold, slimy grasp around my fingers. I laughed nervously, taking his wrist gently with one hand, prying his fingers one-by-one off of the other with slight difficulty. As small and massless as he appeared, Fiddleford seemed surprisingly strong for his first day of consciousness, and I took that as a good omen.

I smiled. He was generally pretty sincere, but that didn't mean that he couldn't be a little bit of a tease sometimes if he wanted to. "Come on, Fiddleford. Let's get you out of there. Here –take my hand again and let's see if it works out better!" I chuckled.

I took his limp hand, which was resting on his chest, and readjusted it for him so that our palms met and perhaps he could get a better grip. I squeezed his palm to let him know that I was ready to help him out of there, but his body went completely slack, and his fingers untwined from my hand. His mouth hung open with a dazed, innocent look, as he focused on my face. Then suddenly imbued with interest, the corners of his mouth drew upward into a little smile, and his eyes shone.

"Yes!" I cried, "It's me! Do you recognize me yet? It's your friend, Stanford!"

I felt the fingertips of his repugnant hand press themselves into my cheek and gently probe around my skin. I wrinkled my nose as they drew themselves haphazardly over my glasses smudging them, setting them askew, and as they prodded the tip of my nose, filling my nostrils with the faint stench of whatever substances remaining that were used to create him.

"Yes –yes, well, I'm quite happy to see you too, buddy," I said, briskly, shoving his hand away as he tried to probe more of my facial features. I adjusted my haphazard glasses and sighed, thankful that he finally was discouraged from it and seemed calmer, despite that genuinely excited and curious light that remained in his eyes. Perhaps Fiddleford was still a little dazed from coming into being and having a multitude of senses come to him all at once and was having trouble expressing himself, but his reaction upon seeing me gave me some hope that he might truly recognize me and want to enjoy my company.

"Come on! Get up! I'm not just going to leave you in there!" I grumbled, as I leaned down to scoop him up, "If you're just going to sit there and gape at me, it sounds like I'm going to have to force you to move. Sorry."

While I'd been through much messier things, I still didn't like the prospect of cleaning out all of the chemicals and miscellaneous spell concoctions out of my coat, but I figured I'd have to touch him sometime.

It didn't help that as soon as I wrapped my arms around his torso to lift his body, he made a terrible noise of distress that nearly gave me a start and began kicking around to make things as difficult as possible. Not to mention that despite looking quite small and thin, Fiddleford was still at least as heavy as an average adult human being, and, not to say that I don't have the extra strength when the time calls for it, but without any adrenaline from panic induced by being in the vicinity of dangerous creatures, as I've experienced many times before, I'm afraid to say that I was lacking a small bit in strength when it came to the upper body region, and I nearly had to drop the poor man on to the floor as soon as I had my hold on him.

With a groan, I managed to set him down right beside the machine, and I took a quick breath of relief, squatting down momentarily to rest, despite being only a 30-something and in relatively good shape. Meanwhile, Fiddleford was taking incredible interest in his surroundings, as if moving exactly a foot away from his place of origin made them incredibly diverse and interesting, though in retrospect, I suppose facing the ceiling with only a set field of human vision and inability to turn in any direction would make a difference.

I watched him look up, all around him, behind him, and even down, where he found a very particularly interesting design on a plank of wood to scratch at. I was hopeful that he might recognize this place, from all of my talk and excessive description, and perhaps say something about it, but he was completely silent, presumably still in awe and in his existence-shock. But I wasn't about to waste any more time.

"Get up," I instructed, grabbing on to the clone's arm, "Let's go wash you off." I gave him a small tug to try and get him to stand, but he didn't even attempt any motion. The most he did was look up at me again with that same blank stare and stupid smile. I tugged at his arm again, a little harder. I wasn't quite to the point of getting impatient with him, but perhaps on the brink.

He finally stood, after I became increasingly persistent. Or at least tried to. Watching the Fiddleford clone try to walk was comparable to clumsiness of a newborn fawn. I practically had to catch him every few steps or so, or else he'd come crashing down to his butt. I wasn't surprised, however, due to the fact that his earlier behavior suggested that he was still in a little bit of a sensory overload, and I found that it was forgivable.

With slow effort, we managed traverse through the main room, right to the foot of the stairs, which I had to half-drag him up with considerable difficulty as he made the terrible wailing noise again, which I'd hoped to never hear again. This time, it was louder, even, and was probably less out of fear and more out of annoyance. Fiddleford never liked things to be out of his control, and would often chide me for getting him into situations in which he had no say in, or ended up in unfavorable conditions. I suppose this was no different.

After the ordeal with the stairs, I was disappointed to remember that I had to go all the way down the length of the hallway to find the bathroom. Goodness, this was my own custom house! Why couldn't I have just made it a little more convenient?

But of course, all is well that ends well, and we made it to the bathroom just in time for the clone to yank himself from my grasp and stubbornly sit himself down in the middle of it. I sighed, relieved, then shut the door to keep him safely in there and prevent him from wandering around while I went off to go fetch him a towel and some clothes.

At long last, I was able to open the door to Fiddleford's room with confidence. I strode inside, my excitement renewed, and opened the closet door. I sifted through the neatly-organized outfits, wondering which one would appeal to the new Fiddleford most. I knew I couldn't go wrong with the muddy sort of greens or browns he was a fan of, but the blue shirt with pink flowers all over it looked especially nice. I decided that it wouldn't hurt for the occasion, even though I hadn't seen him wear it too often in the past.

I chuckled as I took it off the rack. He sure was a flashy fashion statement, back when I last saw him. I always insisted that maybe he could try a nice, practical, comfortable cotton shirt and sweater, but as soon as he was free to get out of his work clothes, he'd slip on a satin shirt and his bell bottoms like he about to go to some club, but the most he'd do to show off was sit in the corner and play banjo, as long as it was any time before 8:00 pm.

As soon as I gathered up every article, including a nice towel and wash cloth, I headed back down the hall to the bathroom. Of course, I don't know what I really expected when I walked in the room, but it certainly was a sight to behold.

He didn't seem the least bit perturbed when I walked in on him, and simply looked up at me with round, innocent blue eyes, seeming to carry no worry whatsoever, happily crunching and slobbering all over the bristles of my toothbrush, as he sat, naked, cross-legged, surrounded by wads of unrolled toilet paper. _My_ toothbrush! For goodness sakes! If this was payback for dragging him all around, I could understand that, but what did he hope to gain by ransacking my personal hygiene items? It seemed quite unlike him.

But I pushed that thought aside, and continued with my reasoning that he might need some more time to get his head together after coming into being. I was sure that his real personality would emerge soon, and these funny little incidents would be put behind us.

I set the clothes and the towel down on to the cabinet and sighed, readying myself physically and mentally for one last task of getting the clone into the tub. Somehow, some way, and hopefully with a little less kicking and screaming than the last ordeal of getting him here.


End file.
